Similar yet Different
by Sonya-Heather-DeVito
Summary: A comparison between Lord Voldemort and his ancestor Herpo - on how they were similar and different in peculiar ways. Canon Divergence!


_A/N: It is a genderbent story where Harry Potter is a female. Written for the Intermationla Wizarding school Championship. I don't own Harry Potter; it solely belongs to J.K. Rowling!_

_School: Ilvermorny_

_Year: 5_

_Prompt: __[__Character] Herpo the Foul (Main)_

_Theme: Hermes _

_Word Count: 2515 (As of Microsoft Word)_

_I have used Hermes' myth of being conductor of souls - a character moving from light to darkness. Also, I've used his myth of being the God of Thieves._

* * *

Immortality didn't just define itself as the ability to live forever, or gaining everlasting and eternal life. It also meant infinite opportunities and indefinite time to achieve all that he could; all that he wanted to. It meant bending the world to his knees and living above all those mortal creatures, as was his right. Immortality meant being their God.

Herpo, in every sense of the word, was a true genius. The Greek dark wizard was the only one to achieve things that the others couldn't possibly imagine or dared to dream. A master manipulator and king of words, he was rightfully feared by every being, and certainly not someone to be crossed with.

Herpo was a villain - one of the most powerful and influential users of Dark Magic. Born into a high and noble family of Ancient Greece, he'd grown up surrounded by facilities of all kind - he's grown up to believe that he was above everyone else, and the world's place was beneath his very feet. Extraordinate in his magical prowess, he was taught and tutored in every branch by his intelligent mother.

Magic and it's true beauty and potential, however, weren't respected as they should have been. Born to a father who was unaware of his son's greatness, had proven to cause hindrance in Herpo's plans.

He didn't like it when his mother would abruptly stop teaching him whenever his father entered the room. He hated it when the fake lighting around in his royal suite would diminish in their intensity, so as to keep their secret hidden. He didn't like not being able to talk to his snakes in the proximity of others. He hated whenever he would hear witches and wizards being burnt alive everywhere around the world because such freakiness was not normal and against God himself. He hated it all - not being able to use magic openly.

Mother often reminded him that it will all be over very soon; he, however, knew better to not believe her but had respected her wishes nonetheless. Her polite demand to not let his father know anything about them.

Years and years of hidden practices had only strengthened his control over magic further.

Magic cloaked around him heavily - protecting, nurturing, assuring - just like his mother. His beautiful, sweet and wise mother, who'd been murdered at the hands of her own husband, and left a broken and furious son behind. It hadn't taken much thought after that, and Herpo had committed his first kill - his vile father - in a fit of revenge, looted all his lifetime earnings and had fled away. The shock and fury in his father's eyes, when Herpo had taken his life, had given him nothing but satisfaction. He was content that he was able to bring some peace to his mother's soul - the woman who gave Herpo 'Magic'.

"You've robbed me of my life, you've robbed me of my strength, you've robbed me of my wealth! Oh, Herpo, you've done such a disdainful task by embracing your magic and abnormality. I will make sure that God himself will punish you for your barbaric and heinous tasks!"

The rush of power and intoxicating feeling that had coursed through his veins, when he'd cast the curse on his non-magic father, had been unexplainable in the sweetest and most glorious ways. That one simple action though had rendered his soul irreversibly - because a murder not only affects the victims but the caster's soul and mind as well. That one kill had allowed darkness to seep into Herpo's life.

Leaving everything behind, he'd travelled around the world in the search for knowledge and hadn't failed. He charmed his way through learning every price of dark magic that he could get his hands on.

Then came forth Herpo's great inventions that took the Wizarding World by storm. He accomplished the task of breeding one of the deadliest creature known to wizardkind - one whose mere gaze could kill anyone instantly, one whose venom was poisonous enough not to be touched barehanded. Herpo simply bred the Basilisk - the King of Serpents and creatures with unwavering loyalty to its masters. It was an impeccable achievement, of course, seeing how his Parseltongue abilities gave him the power to take control of the giant beast. A hiss of Herpo's command, had the Basilisk slithering at his feet. The Basilisk's invention was further proof of Herpo's soul losing its light.

The final and horrid task that had swept him into the folds of darkness, forever, was the creation of Horcrux.

The Horcrux was the wickedest of magical inventions - one that should not been be spoken about.

Horcrux is defined as an object in which a person could conceal and hide a part of their own soul - the soul that was never meant to be tainted, let alone be broken into fragments like shards of glass. Yet, Herpo being the mighty and intelligent wizard he was, didn't fail even this time.

This horrendous task of his gained him the title of 'Herpo the Foul' - one who wasn't afraid to lose even himself in his search for power. One who'd tried to gain something that was impossible for any human being. Herpo had become immortal, and thus a God walking among those pitiful creatures. His soul had been traded for his sanity without his knowledge, and he had tied himself to a fate that no one either knew about nor did they want to.

Whatever his achievements might have been, what all he had accomplished over, however, simply lacked one thing - Ambition.

Herpo the Foul wasn't ambitious enough. He didn't date to go beyond his first Horcrux dream, and that was his mistake.

Tom Marvolo Riddle though, never made any mistakes.

The handsome freak of Wool's Orphanage, and Hogwarts' most charming student was filled with ambition and determination to convert his dreams into reality, and change his fate. He'd reached Herpo's level of horrible tasks, without any problem, at a very young age and had clear plans to overpower them someday.

Tom stood in the middle of the enormous and too decorated room of Riddle Manor, unflinching and unaffected, with three bodies lying motionless at his feet, and a wand in his hand that wasn't his.

He stood there for far too long, staring intently at the dead bodies with malicious and dead crimson eyes.

He didn't feel any guilt or remorse for the actions he had committed. He should have, but he could not. It was not in his blood to feel warm emotions like them – it was not in his blood to be able to feel any regret; the love potion running in his veins, along with the blood that was being pumped with each beat, assured that. He only could feel the hatred and malice seeping through his veins, and his magic demanding to be lashed out and destroy everything around him, again. His magic wanted to kill his father again – until it brought peace and satisfaction.

His cold eyes were focused on the man who had an eerily similar face to that of Tom - same eyes, same high cheekbones, same pale features. The resemblance was so uncanny that Tom wanted nothing more than to scratch his own face, and remove all evidence of his relationship to _him_ \- his father.

Father. What a pitiful example had Tom's poor mother, Merope, left for him. A father who had not wanted his unborn child, knowing that it wasn't the baby's fault. A father who had left his pregnant mother to die in the cold streets of London. A father who had not once come looking for his child, when Tom was so hopelessly waiting for him. He wasn't a father. He was a monster. And he had killed Merope, just as Herpo's father had murdered his own wife.

It truly was peculiar as to how similar Tom's fate was to Herpo - his great ancestor, but not entirely.

Where Herpo had seen and experienced the love of his mother, Tom had only endured the pain. He was the loveless child of a _love _marriage after all; he was the result of rape. Tom had only carried the burden of murdering his mother as Mrs Cole had drilled into his brain from a very early age - the devil's spawn that had eaten his mother alive as soon as he was born.

Where Herpo had been brought up in luxury, and lived an extraordinary royal life, Tom had struggled to survive each day. Wool's Orphanage was in no way whatsoever, an ideal place for the upbringing of any child, let alone Tom, especially during the great war when the necessities were scarce and limited. He had stolen food to keep his stomach from dying; the marks and scars littered across his body, spoke volumes of the struggles he' faced when living at the orphanage. Yet, Tom had carved his way through it all, and shone as the brightest star lighting the night sky. Tom had not only survived but lived a life neither of the humans could imagine, nor did they want to.

Where Herpo's glory had reached worldwide, gaining him recognition and respect because of his wonderful Basilisk hatching, Tom's pride and right had been forced to hide deep into the dark and cold dungeons of the Chamber, for the fear of not getting caught; for it took the life of a mudblood whom no one cared about.

The greatest difference, however, was the darkness of their souls.

Where Herpo had seen and bathed in the light of life; experienced warmer emotions like love and laughter, Tom had been ripped apart from them even before he was born.

He had only grown up to recognise the cold and harsh behaviour, and hatred beyond belief. He had grown up learning, only to think about your own good and selfish needs. He had grown up to feel pain that no child should have known. He had grown up as the freaky orphan.

It did not matter now though; everything had come around where it all started - like the great circle of life.

The man who had left his mother to die in the cold winter streets, now remained as nothing but a mere corpse at his feet. The rush of power and intoxicating feeling that had coursed through his veins, when he'd cast the curse on his muggle father, had been unexplainable in the sweetest and most glorious ways. The shock and fury in his father's eyes, when Tom had taken his life, had given him nothing but satisfaction. He was content that he was able to bring some peace to his mother's soul - the woman who gave Tom 'Magic'.

"You are a FREAK, just like….just like _her_! You are not my son - I do not accept you. She was crazy...a fre…"

Tom broke is gaze from the vile creature, and looked at the old couple who had lost their lives for no reason at all. They were nice, he assumed - had wanted a grandson and were willing to accept Tom, but not his magic. That reason was enough in Tom's eyes to punish them; to make them pay.

He turned around suddenly, moving out of the massive manor swiftly, wand still clutched tightly in his hand, and towards the Gaunt Shack. He had a plan ready in his mind - everything had gone as he had originally thought - and that was brilliant, because Tom Marvolo Riddle Lord Voldemort made no mistakes.

As soon as he reached the outskirts of Little Hangleton, and the doors of Gaunt Shack, Tom could not keep the look of utter disdain from his face. The dead snake at the door clearly indicated towards the crazy and ruthless nature of the Shack's inhabitants. What a shame to say that this filth filled and moth eaten place, was the home to the great Salazar Slytherin's predecessors!

Tom moved inside, checking and double checking if anyone was around to see him or not. In the living room, Morfin still lay unconscious on the floor - a shocked look upon his face - just as Tom had left him earlier that day after their conversation.

He took out his own loyal Yew wand from his robes, and put Morfin's wand back into his hands. Using Legilimency, he easily entered his lunatic, unconscious uncle's mind and started altering his memories.

Tom removed every trace of himself from Morfin's mind. He put the alternate memory of Morfin going to Riddle Manor in a fit of revenge and madness, and casting the Killing Curse on Thomas Riddle, his wife Mary Riddle and their rotten son Tom Riddle, after a few minutes of loud arguments. He then proceeded to put how Morfin reached back home and lost his consciousness after having excessive amounts of celebratory drinks, on killing the filthy muggles.

He put away his wand only when he was satisfied with his work - satisfied that no traces or evidences were left behind, that would lead up to him. Tom was about to turn and leave when his eyes caught onto something on Morfin's hand. He moved again, closer this time, and kneeled carefully to introspect the shiny piece of jewellery.

It was a ring, he found. It had a gold ring inset with a black stone embedded intricately in it. The stone had something carved on it; something he quite couldn't recognise at that moment. But he had immediately recognised the ring.

It was a priceless family heirloom; one that had come into the possession House of Gaunts, from the strong and pure blood, Peverell Lines instead of Slytherin's. He recognised it from the picture he had seen in the diaries found in Salazar's hidden libraries in the Chamber of Secrets.

Such a precious ring _did not_ belong to this rotten place; it did not belong to Morfin Gaunt.

Tom took the ring from Morfin, slipped into his own left ring finger, and admired it. Yes! This is where the ring belonged. In the hands of the true Heir of Slytherin. It belonged to Lord Voldemort! The ring would make an excellent keeper of his soul - and excellent Horcrux indeed.

That was how Lord Voldemort was different from Herpo the Foul. He had never had light in his soul - there always had been infinite stretches of darkness. His soul had already been broken and it was going to broken yet again - many times - until Lord Voldemort's existence upon this earth was sealed to infinity and beyond.

Tom moved out of the Gaunt Shack, his heart swelling in pride at his achievements. He had killed the monrosity that had left him and his mother to die. And he had found a prize for his achievements as well.

Work still needed to be done. His journey had only just begun.

Lord Voldemort would certainly not shy away, and _beat_ even Herpo the Foul, in his quest to become God.


End file.
